


still left with your hands

by skeletonannie



Series: london underground [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, London Underground, Multi, btvs/carmilla crossover, punk never dies au, ripper & calla bEST FRIENDS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:48:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonannie/pseuds/skeletonannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[punk never dies au]</p>
<p>carmilla meets ripper.  mattie is thrilled. </p>
<p>(carmilla/btvs crossover)</p>
            </blockquote>





	still left with your hands

She smells like a distillery and someone else’s sweat as she tugs on your sleeve, leaving dirty fingerprints on the fabric. You grimace and gently pry her off, giving another curt, “No, Calla,” before sauntering into the kitchen and pouring a mug of blood.

            “Please, Mattie?  You never come with me and like—okay, so you know that band The Strand that I like?” You give her a look and she shakes her head. “okay, obviously not, but whatever. So they’re a band I like and they just got a new dude and they changed their name and the new dude’s name is—okay Mattie get this—his name is _Johnny Rotten._ How far out is that?” You don’t answer, just give her another look, but it doesn’t deter her.  “Mattie, they’re called the _Sex Pistols!_ Like, do you know how spazzy those bogues are gonna be about that?  It’s a _revolution_ , Mattie! Come on!” She sidles up to you, grabs your mug and pours a healthy amount of whiskey into it. “Don’t you want to be a part of history?”

            She looks so eager, so excited.  You sigh, pulling another mug out of the cupboard and allowing her to pour whiskey into that one, as well.  “Calla, love,” you start gently.  “People like us—there are a lot of names in history, darling, but--Calla, none of them are ours.”

            She deflates, looking at the ground before chugging her whiskey-spiked blood. Taking a deep breath, she looks at you. She looks very small. “I know, Mattie,” she whispers, “but…I don’t know, it’s nice to pretend, isn’t it?”  Rubbing her nose, she puts the mug down and pours more whiskey. “Like—okay, yeah, I’m old, and you’re like, a thousand,” you push her shoulder with a scoff and she smiles, small and crooked.  “It’s true! Anyway, I just…I don’t know, Mattie. I feel like, for once, I belong in the century I’ve been forced into.  And,” she trails off, curls her socked feet in on themselves. “Like, I don’t want to get all emo like those sappy twats singin’ about, like, love and shit, but.” She stops, runs a shaking hand through her hair.  Her hands are always shaking.

            “Calla, darling, what is it?  Why does this mean so much to you, that I come to this filthy writhing orgy of anger and anarchy?”

            She smiles at that, rubbing her nose again.  “I just—I finally fit?  And I want to, I don’t know, like…I want to—” She stops herself again, shrugging her tiny shoulders.  “I wanna share it with you, I guess.  Yeah, maybe none of the names in history will be ours, but, like—you’re _my_ history, so,” another small shrug, a self-deprecating smile. “I’d like to remember the history _I_ get to write. And I wanna remember that you were in the thick of it, with me, with your stupid Chanel or Dior or whatever the fuck getting ripped and covered in a stranger’s sweat and the bass hammering in your chest where I wish a heart still beat.”

            Your eyes sting, and you can feel a very heavy weight in your chest. You’re very old, and so is Calla, but right now she is young and vibrant and angry as all hell, and she wants to show you a piece of her she fought centuries of blood for.  So you sigh very heavily, slam your whiskey/blood abomination, sigh again. 

            With a hand under her chin, you lift her face to meet your eyes. “Calla, you sentimental little nerd. I would be honoured to attend this shit storm you have planned for me.”

            You have not seen a smile like that on her face since that beautiful blonde waif of a girl touched her hand.

            “This is gonna be such a fuckin’ riot,” she whispers, pouring you another shot.

\---

The venue is a school of art, which you find incredibly ironic, in the middle of central London.  Calla is buzzing with whiskey and excitement beside you, drumming her hands against her thighs and swigging from her flask she keeps tucked in the front of her leather pants.  The early November chill doesn’t seem to affect her, but you are not so far-gone, despite the absurd amount of alcohol Calla insisted you ingest. Her breath lingers in front of her face and she closes her eyes, lifts her head, smiles at the cloudy grey sky.

            You light a cigarette and hand it to her, lighting your own and inhaling deeply. “Calla, I really hope I haven’t made a mistake tonight.”

            She looks at you hazily, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “Matska, _darling,_ ” she coos, pinching your cheek.  “You have made a huge mistake, but you have made it with me, so therefore,” she twines your fingers, gives you a saccharine grin, “it is a wonderful decision that we will cherish.”  The venue towers in front of you, and her grip on your hand tightens.  “Now, don’t let go, Mattie,” she calls, before tugging you into the building, giving a nod to the hulking mass of a man at the door.

            A haze of heavy smoke floats thick above the crowd.  Someone is already bleeding from what looks like a beer bottle to the forehead, and a young lady is doing a line off of a young man’s genitals placed upon a sticky bar stool.  You are horrified.

            Calla sees your face and bends double, her shoulders shaking. Righting herself and wiping her eyes, she tugs your fingers.  “Don’t be such a square, Mattie.  This is punk; it’s raw and real and it’s fuckin’ gritty.  Get used to it, _love_.” She smirks and pulls you to the bar.

            Eventually, you lose her, of course.  She said she was “runnin’ off to the loo,” which you only half-believed, and you haven’t seen her in about fifteen minutes.  The smoky haze is getting thicker, and there is _definitely_ someone’s beer spilled on your sleeve.  You sigh and try to find the music among the clanging of cymbals and angry guitar smashing, but, try as you might, it is impossible. With another heavy sigh, you turn and head to the bar, only to be knocked back into a table by a young man with broken glasses and a cut on his forehead.

            “Well well, don’t you look out of place,” he smirks, placing his arms on either side of your body.  He smells like vodka and that unmistakable tang of anger and sadness.  Your nose crinkles and you push him off.

            “Touch me again, love, I’m already half-mast,” he grabs at his crotch and laughs at your disgusted look.  “Relax, lady, no need to spaz out, just havin’ a laugh.”  He takes a swig of his beer and wipes at the blood on his forehead. “What are you doin’ ‘ere in your,” he squints and whistles, “fuck me, is that Yves Saint-Laurent?”

            You’re surprised he knew how impeccably you are dressed, but you are also annoyed and quite over this disaster of an outing, so you raise a brow and push past him.  He stumbles and grabs at your sleeve, angrily spitting out a “oi, fuck off, lady!” before he chokes off, gargling and sputtering. 

            Turning around, you find Calla with one hand around his throat and the other with what appears to be a vice grip on his testicles.

            “Say it again, prick,” she spits dangerously, her eyes dark and violent. The man sputters out a ‘fuck you’ and Calla tightens her grip on his testicles.  “What was that?  I didn’t hear you,” she taunts, twisting her hand.  His eyes widen and he grapples at her hands, his mouth twisting in pain. Calla laughs, dark and thick. She loosens her grip on his throat and leans in closer, a taunting smirk on her face.  “I said, say it again, _prick._ ”

            You step forward, place a hand on her shoulder.  She stiffens, sparing you a glance before spitting on the man and releasing her grip.  He coughs and holds his crotch, eyeing Calla carefully.

            “You’re a right spitfire, aren’t you, love?” he wheezes, tenderly touching his neck. Calla scoffs and grabs a beer bottle, smashing it against the table and holding the shattered glass against his chest.

            “Touch her again, _love_ ; I dare you.” His eyes widen momentarily before his face breaks into a crooked grin.  Straightening his glasses, he holds out his hand.

            “I’m Ripper.”

            Calla eyes his hand before lowering the bottle and taking a step back. She sighs and wipes at her nose. He watches the action with a knowing grin, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tiny baggie. “You seem like a good time; wanna get wrecked and show these phonies what punk is _really_ about?”

            You sigh, knowing tonight just got a lot messier, but you don’t stop her when Calla takes his hand with a conspiratorial grin.  “Well, _Ripper,_ I believe we could be great friends. I’m Calla.”  This ‘Ripper’ laughs, shaking his head. 

            Turning to you, he looks sheepish.  “Apologies, miss,” he says, meeting your eyes.  You’re impressed; you’re very intimidating. “I got a bit out of hand, I’ll admit.”

            “Just buy me a drink, Ripper.  Something strong.”

            He nods happily and pulls Calla to the bar, spouting off about the suggested power inherent within the angry slam of guitar as Calla nods excitedly beside him.  You shake your head and settle against the grimy bar stool, crossing your arms. This is going to be a long night.

\---

It’s going on three am.  Ripper has led you and Calla to a roped off stairwell in an alley behind the venue, which you had to leave very quickly because Calla and Ripper started a brawl after a young man stepped on your shoe.  He’s lifting the chain and slipping underneath it as you watch with a raised brow.  Calla has a stolen bottle of whiskey under her arm and Ripper has a lit cigarette behind his ear. Your Saint-Laurent is stained beyond dry-cleaning, so you sigh and step under the chain, following them up the stairs.  Ripper is limping, and Calla has a black eye, but they’re smiling.

            You’re about to loudly complain about the state of your wardrobe when you hear a sudden, quiet gasp from Calla and a gently whispered ‘I know’ from Ripper. You top the stairs and watch as Calla stutters, her feet getting caught up as her hazy gaze locks onto the view from the rooftop.  Ripper is standing behind her with a soft smile, taking a slow drag from his cigarette.

            Admittedly, the view is beautiful.  Humans are truly remarkable, if the massive sprawling metropolis lain out below you is anything to go by.  Calla is mesmerized, standing worrisomely close to the edge of the roof.  She turns slowly, her eyes finding yours.

            “Mattie,” she whispers, her voice reverent.  “Look,” and she points a shaky hand out over buildings. Ripper smiles and sits down on the edge of the building, tugging Calla down and opening the bottle.

            You slowly join them, tucking your skirt beneath you carefully. Ripper leans over and spits off the roof, laughing as it lands on a cop car.  Calla high fives him and spits too, missing the car but hitting a passed out youth on the sidewalk.

            You don’t say anything, just sit quietly and watch as Calla becomes the gentle, soft girl you remembered.  Ripper is mesmerized by the movements of her hands, her mouth, and you have to wonder if this little adventure has resulted in another broken heart.  But then Calla turns to him and smiles, bloody and genuine, and Ripper smiles back, holds out the bottle, says, “I’m glad I assaulted your sister, Calla.”

            Calla laughs and nudges him with her elbow.  “Me too, Ripper.  Sorry about your nuts.”  He shrugs and laughs as Calla sputters over her swig, before wiping his glasses on his shirt and launching into a conversation about the North American punk scene, Calla jumping in enthusiastically.

            You watch silently, with a gentle smile, as Ripper and Calla talk well into sunrise, making plans to party with Patti Smith, their laughs and slurred words becoming a low hum until finally they are sprawled out in a pile on the roof, empty bottle on Ripper’s chest and Calla’s cheek pressed into his shoulder. You stand, brushing your skirt off, and head home.

\---

            You heave a sigh and push yourself out of bed, knowing that once you leave your room you will be entering pure chaos.  Calla and Ripper went out last night, some show or another, and had come home _spectacularly_ smashed. You heard them laughing about a kid at a show that got knocked out by a guitar, then their voices got quieter as Calla told Ripper about the scars on her crooked wrists and Ripper whispered back “there are a lot of ways to die, aren’t there?  This is just on _our_ terms.”  You pressed a hand to your mouth, closed your eyes, pictured the smile that splits Calla’s face when you attend those exercises in debauchery with her.  You tried to cry quietly.

            You were right about the chaos: the living room is a mess of discarded clothes, bloodstains, empty bottles, rolled up bills.  Ripper and Calla are passed out on the floor next to the record player, which has been skipping for three hours now.  You spare Calla’s sprawled form a fond smile before heading to the kitchen and grabbing a few pots.

            Traipsing into the living room, you begin to slam the pots together, shouting Cheap Trick and kicking at Ripper’s legs.  A mighty groan comes from Calla and she rolls over and away, until half her body is under the couch.  Ripper doesn’t have the energy to move away, so he just buries his head under the thick shag carpet and groans.  You laugh and drop the pots with a _clang_ , grabbing Ripper’s legs and dragging him into the bathroom, the shag carpet still clutched in his hands.

            “Miss Belmonde, I must detest,” he moans.  You laugh and lift him into the shower, where he stumbles into the wall trying to escape the cold spray.  “ _Miss Belmonde,”_ he hisses, giving you a bleary glare.  You throw him a bar of soap, smirking at his soaked clothes.  The water takes on a pink hue as the spray soaks the night before out of Ripper’s clothes.  He sighs in defeat and runs the soap through his hair, giving you one last glare. “Calla better be next,” he grumbles.

            “Oh, don’t doubt it, Ripper dear.”  The door clicks behind you and you enter the living room to see Calla peering up at you warily from under the couch.

            “Please don’t,” she whispers, her voice rough and gravelly. You shake your head and smile. A hiss comes from under the couch, followed by an embarrassed, "oh my _god_ " that you ignore.

\---

You come home to find Calla and Ripper on the floor, cigarette smoke heavy in the air, a dish of ink between them. Calla has her shirt off, her right arm held straight out as Ripper holds a sewing needle to her skin, his tongue poking out as he presses the needle in.

            “What in the _hell_ , Ripper?” you storm into the room, knocking over an ashtray.

            He glances up at you quickly before looking back to Calla’s upper arm. “Wotcher, Mattie,” he mumbles, pressing the needle back into Calla’s skin.  Calla looks up at you with a messy grin, her hair in her eyes.

            “We’re getting tattoos,” she tells you happily.  You roll your eyes, _hard_ , and give her a look.

            “Remember how this works, Calla?” you say.  She huffs.

            “Yes, _Matska_ , I remember. But so what?  Ripper and I are gonna match, at least for a little while.” She mutters to Ripper, “almost done?” and he nods, dipping the needle in more ink.

            “A couple more spots then I’m done.  Mine’s already done, Mattie, if you want to see.”

            “May as well get on with it,” you mutter.  Ripper grins and pulls away from Calla, rolling up his right sleeve and presenting his new tattoo proudly.

            You fight a smile, instead schooling your face into stern disapproval.  “Really?  How cliché, darling.”  Ripper scoffs and unrolls his sleeve, but not before giving his freshly inked anarchist symbol a fond look.

            “Whatever, Mattie.  You don’t understand.” Calla nods her agreement, smirking at you.

            “She’s too old to get it, Ripper.”

            “Watch it, Calla,” you warn, poking her with your stiletto. She sticks her tongue out at you. “Does anyone want tea?” you ask over your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen.  Two quiet ‘ _yes please, Mattie_ ’s float back to you and you smile.

\---

Ripper and Calla are on the balcony, smoking and sharing a bottle of Jameson.  You can hear their quiet murmurs between drags, and you are about to head off to bed when you hear Ripper ask, quietly, “so you’re—I mean, you’re not human, are you?”

            Calla’s breath stutters and you’re halfway to the balcony when she answers, “no, Rip, I’m not,” and she sounds so _sad_ you have to stop and take a deep, deep breath.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you hear Calla stifle a sob. “I’m very sorry, Calla.”

            A sniffle, then, “thanks, Rip.  It’s not,” she exhales slowly, and you can picture her dark eyes, her clenched jaw. “It’s not all bad. I mean—I have Mattie. And now,” she stutters over her own words again, shy and gentle.  “Now, I have…well I have you, don’t I?  At least, for a little while.”

            Ripper doesn’t say anything for a long moment.  You hear them breathing; Calla has matched her breaths to Ripper’s, and that makes your chest ache in some unfamiliar way. Then, “You’re stuck with me, Calla. You have me for as long as I have this tattoo.”  Calla laughs wetly at that, and they don’t speak for a long while.

            “I’ve tried,” Calla starts, slowly, “to—to die, a few times. It hasn’t—well, it hasn’t worked yet.”

            “Me, too,” Ripper whispers.

            With a hand pressed to your mouth, you sink onto the couch, tucking your legs under you.  On the balcony, Ripper and Calla breathe together, and then Calla scoffs wetly, says “well aren’t we a fucking pair,” and Ripper laughs.

            “Too right, spitfire.  Bloody cheers to that.” The clink of a bottle, and then they laugh, quiet and sad, before Ripper says, “you’re my best friend, by the way,” and you feel something twinge in your chest.

            “I—” she trips over her words, before righting herself and saying, “yeah. Yeah.”

            You stand up slowly, walk to your bedroom, lie down on your duvet and you try not to cry.

            Calla and Ripper stumble in much later, sloppy with liquor, and you hear Calla mutter, “I’m glad I didn’t manage to die before I met you.”  Ripper chuckles, dark and sad.

            “I’m sorry you can’t.”

            You press your face into your pillow and ignore the wetness staining the silk beneath your cheek.

           

You wake to find them curled up on the couch, Calla spooning Ripper, her feet tangled in his legs. Ripper is drooling and Calla looks soft, small.  A fond smile pulls at your lips. You leave them to rest.

           

           

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 of punk never dies au. when will these ruffians grow up.
> 
> faith/matska & carm/faith, as well as laura/buffy comin' atcha, nerds.
> 
> CHASE THE FLAME.
> 
> thanks victoria.


End file.
